


Family

by Weiila



Series: Dor'ash and Sarah [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-15 12:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weiila/pseuds/Weiila
Summary: What you don't know can't hurt you, supposedly. It's especially true when you never knew what had been, and you never cared what you lost, until it suddenly and violently comes back to you. Sarah and Dor'ash's friendship is forced to its breaking point. Curse you, chance meetings!





	1. Breaking Apart

The ship drifted closer to the dock, skillfully steered by sailors so used to this that they probably could have done it in their sleep. Ratchet hardly reacted to the _Maiden's Fancy_ at this time of the day, and the passengers sluggishly hurried off the ship and towards the town, hampered under their packages and the heat. A room, a drink and then sleep for an hour or two, until the heat lifted again, that was just about the only thing on most of the people's minds.

A lot of people waited on the dock as well, to either board the ship or meet with arriving passengers.

Dor'ash didn't mind the heat much, despite his upbringing in the chilly Alterac Mountains. Orcs did prefer heat to cold, and though he regarded his youth as a good period of his life, getting into warmer territory had definitely been a plus. The Barrens during midday had a tendency to overdo the warmth, though, and he stifled a yawn. Down by the ocean it was easier, and he had no plans on leaving Ratchet until it was more bearable. He had to think about his wolf mount Grey, too.

His other companion could probably have skipped through a volcano without being worse for the wear. But then again, he realized with a smirk as he glanced at her, Sarah was standing in his shadow. Hmm.

The flow of passengers coming down the gangway was thinning, and Sarah impatiently straightened her creaking back. Then her sun-warmed lips twisted in a recognizing smile, and Dor'ash looked up to see yet another Forsaken sauntering off the ship. Jonathan's blue robe lazily billowed around his tall, but skeletal form and he turned his head from side to side until he spotted the two people waiting for him. Grinning, he hurried towards them as they came to meet him.

"I was starting to think you managed to miss the boat," Sarah said, cheerfully giving him a loud kiss on the cheek – to the horror of any living people watching.

"Hardly, I couldn't wait to get out of there," Jonathan replied, shaking his head as he squeezed her in a hug. "The damn jungle is too humid. I've got mold growing along my ribs. See?"

Dor'ash pointedly looked away when the mage pulled at his own robe, baring a chest with less than the normal amount of skin.

"That could be grave moss," Sarah said, bending closer and prodding at Jonathan's chest with a sharp finger. "I can use that. But it needs to grow a little more before I can be certain."

"But I…" Jonathan paused and then sighed, pulling the robe back in place. "Fine, I'll let it fester." He met Dor'ash's amused look and sighed again, knowing what the orc would say.

"You should know better," Dor'ash commented.

"Yep. But speaking of which…"

Jonathan reached into one of his bags and pulled out a carefully wrapped package.

"I got you flowers, darling," he said, offering it to Sarah.

"Ooh, you think of everything!"

When she opened and saw whatever it was in the package, she gave a hoarse, unpleasantly triumphant chuckle and Jonathan got another kiss. Dor'ash tried to ignore their antics. The two of them fell in behind him as he began walking up the pier towards the main part of the dock, to head into town. That they switched to Gutterspeak for their continued conversation was a relief.

There weren't that many people left on the dock at that point, apart from the sailors and workers loading shipments – moving slowly because of the heat. Therefore, Dor'ash instantly noticed the group of humans coming up the main dock. He slowed, waiting to see where they were heading. Ratchet might be neutral, but he didn't want any trouble and was prepared to wait on the branch part of the harbor until the humans had passed. He heard Sarah and Jonathan's step slow behind him in response, but they didn't stop talking with each other.

And then Dor'ash's brain caught up with the fact that those men and women wore the colors of Theramore, and were lead by a familiar man in a diplomat's robe. The first brush of a grin at the coincidence was torn away when cold realization hit. His gaze met Thomas Southstone's, and the same cruel twist from pleasant surprise to horror reflected in the former paladin's eyes.

Simon Nebula walked just beside Thomas.

Sarah Nebula walked just behind Dor'ash.

And the living was blissfully unaware of the undead who very possibly was his sister, as unaware as the Forsaken was of the living.

Horror gave away for panicked understanding. Thomas turned to Simon and said something, making him look in the other direction. Perhaps unnecessarily, as Simon already had been talking to one of the soldiers.

Quickly, Dor'ash started to turn to say something distracting to Sarah, knowing his bulk could block the Forsaken from view. He turned also in a desperate hope for the other Theramore soldiers to not recognize him, because if they addressed him both Sarah and Jonathan would definitely step into view.

It might have worked.

However, Fate decided to intervene.

"Hey, Nebula!" a soldier, the one interrupted by Thomas' attempt to divert attention, loudly said.

Thomas sucked in his breath so loudly it could be heard all the way to where the members of the Horde stood.

"What?" Simon said, smiling as he looked around.

"What?" Sarah said, poking her head out from behind Dor'ash.

They both froze.

The air seemed to turn to glue as Simon spun around, smile torn from his lips by a look of disbelief. It crumbled to pure terror as Sarah stepped further into sight, ducking Dor'ash's attempt to hold her back. She frowned, straightening up as if to see better.

"What…?" she muttered.

Simon stared. Slowly, mechanically, he began to shake his head. He recoiled, would have bumped into the shocked soldiers behind him if Thomas had not gripped his shoulders firmly.

"Simon!" Thomas said. "No. No, Simon. Listen to me-"

"Sarah?" Simon croaked the name, shaking his head more violently. Not taking his eyes off the silent undead for a moment. " _Sarah_?"

Thomas shook his head too, but he must have known that it was useless at that point.

"Now what?" Jonathan asked, stepping into sight as well. He was completely ignored.

Gritting his teeth, Dor'ash closed his huge hand around Sarah's thin arm. She didn't move.

"Come," he said in a hard tone, speaking Common. "This is cruel."

She didn't seem to hear him, still silently frowning at the trembling Simon. The Theramore soldiers had caught up with the events by now, shock fading into pity for Simon, and cold looks of suspicious hatred for Sarah.

Dor'ash could have just lifted her and carried her off down the dock. He would often look back on this moment and regret not doing so before it was too late. Before Sarah spoke.

"Brother."

It was a sharp whisper, tentative, disbelieving. Then, louder.

"Little brother."

And then she too shook her head, a trembling hand rising to her face as a tortured groan escaped Simon. An agitated murmur rose from the Theramore soldiers. Dor'ash and Thomas exchanged pained looks.

We knew. What now?

"Simon." Sarah spoke even louder this time, and her hands clenched. She recoiled as he kept staring at her, frozen at the sound of his name.

Dor'ash was about to let go of her when she drew backwards, crouching, tense. But when she spoke again, with something completely different in her voice, his grip tightened in alarm.

"You… don't look at-" This was a hiss, frail at first but gathering force – and rage.

"Watch out!" Jonathan snarled, hands shooting forwards to grab Sarah's other arm. He missed; she tore forwards, held back by Dor'ash's grip but surprising him with her strength. He almost lost his hold of her.

Simon recoiled, and Thomas stepped up in front of him defensively, face hardening. The diplomat's hand instinctively dove for a sword he no longer carried. The other soldiers moved to follow him.

"How _dare_ you be alive?!" Sarah shrieked, flexing her fingers like claws.

Dor'ash knew that she could teleport over there no matter how tightly he held her. He also knew that if she did that, somebody would die. The soldiers could beat her back and even down, but there would at best only be wounded.

He did the only thing he could think of, and shoved her off the dock.

With a furious screech and a splash Sarah disappeared into the water head first, flailing, but sinking because she had no air in her lungs. She would not be able to teleport up from there with precision, and that might give her time to calm down.

That, at least, was the plan. Unfortunately, Sarah wasn't the only one who had lost the ability to think straight.

"No!" Simon cried out and leaped into the water after her.

The second splash was heavier, not only because of the difference in body mass but also because Simon wore several pieces of metal armor. And he would need oxygen.

For a second, all was frozen in disbelief.

Then, swearing at whatever smirking force was watching and pulling the strings, Dor'ash dove in after the undead and the human. He broke the surface and swiftly continued downwards with wide, powerful sweeps of his arms, wincing against the cool water after the hot day above. It might have been pleasant, if not for the tragic situation and the fact that the ocean was Ratchet's dumping ground.

Luckily the sun's rays reached far enough down to let him see the slowly thrashing shadows below, and he aimed straight for them. No… only one thrashing shadow.

Simon had obviously realized the fact that the armor weighed him down, struggling desperately, uselessly, to move upwards. Sarah hovered just above him, her robe swelling around her thin form and making her seem a lot bigger than she actually was.

She held one of Simon's hands.

Unmoving.

Waiting for him to drown.

Fury flared through Dor'ash's mind – he didn't want to believe it, but it was what he saw. A growl escaped in a cascade of bubbles, and he roughly shoved Sarah backwards while grabbing Simon's arm with the other. She let go, motionlessly floating away as Dor'ash turned upwards again and hauled Simon along.

Sunlight and air met Dor'ash's face and he gasped, hefting the coughing and panting Simon onto his huge shoulder while swimming towards the dock. The human groaned, hardly moving at all.

Reaching one of the stairs leading down towards the water from the dock, Dor'ash managed to wrench Simon onto it. Steps beat against the wood as the Theramore group hurried to meet the soaked two, and pale hands hauled Simon further up into the sunlight. Then one of those hands, when the coughing man was out of the way, reached towards Dor'ash. He looked up to meet the pained look on Thomas' face.

Grunting, the orc heaved himself out of the water, using his own strength but accepting the offered hand towards the end. Didn't really make use of it, had he pulled then Thomas would have gone flying into the water, but part of Dor'ash's ragged mind had enough sense left to show gratitude.

An agitated murmur from the soldiers made him look around, still blinking against the stinging salt water in his eyes.

Another shape climbed onto a stair further away, struggling with the dripping robe which now clung to her, showing just how unnaturally reedy she really was. Sarah got up, standing to face the staring group with her lips drawn back in a furious snarl.

Simon raised a shaking hand towards her.

"Sarah!" Dor'ash growled. His own rage paused, hit a lull seeing her like that – small, miserable, dripping wet.

She couldn't have meant to let her brother drown. She couldn't have. She had to have just been shocked frozen, she had to have something to say for herself.

But then her hands clenched and rose, shaking at him and him only.

"Mind your own business, you damn greenskin!"

The world stopped.

Through a red mist he saw Sarah recoil, turning her head away. Then she was gone, leaving only a fading shimmer and a tinkling sound behind.

Somebody said something, it could have been Thomas swearing in disbelief as he understood the Orcish words.

Dor'ash didn't hear it.

Fire spun through his mind, searing, blinding and he threw his head back, the air trembling with his roar.

It left him so exhausted that when he ran out of air he slumped onto the stairs, clutching his dripping, black hair in a shaking fist. Trying to keep the burning rage from tearing him apart.

By the sound of it several goblin bruisers came running down the dock, demanding in shrill, nerve-tearing voices to know just what exactly was going on. Thomas and the Theramore soldiers answered them, some in distracted voices, assuring that no, no, everything's fine, there's no Horde versus Alliance skirmish going on, we're just fine and you're doing a great job, please keep it up and thanks, bye.

He was half deaf to the world until somebody laid their hand on his shoulder.

"Dor'ash…"

The shaman looked around with a growl, but Thomas merely clenched his teeth harder.

"By the spirits, help me," he said in accented Orcish, consciously using a specific word for 'help' implored to shamans, regarding spiritual ills.

Dor'ash's foul mood nearly made him snap at the man that a human had no business calling on spirits, but then the orc reined himself in. There was no reason for that, Thomas hadn't earned that kind of abuse. Getting to his feet, the orc silently turned around and watched the other Theramore soldiers fuss around the shaking Simon. The living Nebula stood like a soaked doll, emptily staring ahead while the others pried off his chest piece and shoulder plates.

One of them – a blond man curiously wearing leather armor instead of plate, but still adorned with Theramore's golden anchor – looked around while awkwardly wringing water out of a corner of Simon's pale shirt.

"What now?" he asked.

Thomas briefly massaged his temples, then straightened up.

"Collins, everyone, go to the ship. I'll… talk to Simon for a bit."

He grasped Simon's shoulders while the others helplessly nodded, then turned his head.

"And you look like you need a stiff drink too, Dor'ash," Thomas firmly said.

Dor'ash felt too angrily exhausted to argue with that logic. As Thomas began leading the lethargic Simon up the dock, the orc merely followed. A thought struck, however, and he looked around.

Somebody was distinctly absent.

"Where did Jonathan go?" Dor'ash dully grunted, squinting at the sharp sunlight.

"Who, the other Forsaken?" Thomas asked. "He teleported away too."

He only got another grunt in reply to that. If Jonathan had gone after Sarah and found her, he would be wise to keep her away from Dor'ash right then.

Thomas ushered both of them into one of the taverns just by the edge of the harbor. Somehow, the three of them ended up around a table in the mostly empty bar, brooding over a drink each though none of them made a motion to even lift their glasses.

The silence stretched, making the air heavy to breathe.

"You knew."

Simon muttered it in a hoarse voice, staring at the table and gripping his mug so hard that his fingers whitened.

With a sigh, Thomas nodded.

"What should I have told you?" he asked, low and soft. The tone was soothing, but it left him open for any anger that could rightfully be aimed at him and Dor'ash.

It took a moment before Simon answered, his head dipping even further forwards. Then finally he shook his head, teeth gritting.

"What indeed…"

He swallowed hard, and looked up at Dor'ash.

"You, you know her?" Simon asked.

"I don't know anymore." Dor'ash spoke through his fangs, glare hard enough to almost set the table on fire. He couldn't look up and face either of them, just couldn't.

"What she called you, Dor'ash," Thomas started, hesitant, knowing he was stepping on a field of goblin land mines, "I'm sure she wasn't-"

"That's not all!"

Thomas and Simon both recoiled at the snarl, and Dor'ash's fist slamming into the table. The emissary's untouched drink fell over, whatever it was pooling into the table cloth until he righted the glass with a stiffly moving hand.

"She wasn't doing a thing down there!" Dor'ash growled, forcing himself to sit still and not grab Thomas' collar. He wasn't angry at the man, but his fury roared for direction and it was all he could do to grasp the mug and the edge of the table. "She would've just let her own brother drown!"

Though pale, Thomas raised his hands in a pacifying motion. He started to speak again, when Simon cut him off.

"She tugged at my hand."

Shaman and emissary turned towards Simon, mouths snapping shut. He frowned, glancing between them while grasping one hand with the other.

"She did," he said, uncertainly, "I don't know if it means anything… I want to think so."

With a grunt, Dor'ash sat back and pressed his fingers to his scalp. He heard Thomas let out a small sigh of relief, and that annoyed him again even if he couldn't honestly blame the ex-paladin for it.

"How could _she_ be…"

Simon faltered, then rubbed his face with a groan. Shaking his head, a neigh-hysterical chuckle escaped him. Thomas put a hand on his damp shoulder.

"You should've seen her," Simon said in a hoarse, low voice. "She almost started crying whenever father told her to slaughter a chicken for dinner. I always had to do it for her."

That pathetic little detail made Dor'ash's chest tighten, so badly that he had to pinch his eyes shut.

"That person is dead," he muttered, surprised that his voice didn't crack like Simon's.

"What of our parents?" Simon whispered. "What of Patrick?"

Dor'ash shook his head sadly, but at the name his breath stuck in his throat. An image of a cruelly smiling warlock flashed past, of that Forsaken who had possessively grabbed Sarah and cowed her with bare, slithering words, then directed his pet doomguard to attack both her and Dor'ash.

But-

"Who?" he grunted, hardly able to speak from all the conflicting emotions.

"Our- my- our older brother."

Simon stared up at him, and so did Thomas all of a sudden. The look on his face (Dor'ash realized later, when the torturous twisting of his mind stopped), must have been frightening.

He was amazed that the mug he held didn't break.

"No," Dor'ash finally said, forcing back the painful constriction in his heart by willpower alone. "We once met a Forsaken named Patrick, but his last name was Hartwell."

Simon frowned.

"There was a Hartwell family living nearby, their son- Sarah was-" he faltered in a shudder, bowing his head low.

The only reply Dor'ash could give to that was a tired grunt. He saw the truth now, of Azshara.

_Her brother would have killed me she killed him spirits her brother and she chose-_

And yet the anger roared even higher when threatened by the memory of her saving his life. He couldn't deal with this, Patrick was one thing-

_Hyp_ _ocrite._

Simon was her brother too and yet-

That unpredictable little witch, leaping back and forth between loyalties on nothing but her whim.

A guilty voice said that those thoughts weren't fair.

A louder voice snarled at the guilt.

And a bitter voice wondered, not for the first time, if he had ever known her at all.

_She chose your life over her own brother's. Can you judge her?_

_She would have just let this living brother die!_

And her own voice rose up in his memory, whipping at every hesitant feeling that may have eventually smoothened his rage.

" _You damn greenskin!"_

Had she only made him bleed, he could have healed it. He could have forgiven that. But she took that slur, that internment camp, slave word in her mouth and flung it at him.

Simon might believe that she had really tugged at his hand, and that that meant something – but Dor'ash had not seen it and could not accept it enough to believe it. Not now.

"Wait," Simon suddenly said, frowning. His head turned between the two of them, realization rising in his eyes. "Your undead friend… you called her Savannah when you told me, but-" He stared at Thomas. "She saved your life!"

"By setting herself on fire, yes," Thomas said, throwing a guarded look at Dor'ash.

Growling deep in his throat, the shaman rubbed his forehead. He couldn't deal with this, needed time, needed to breathe.

"I'm very," he paused, took in a deep breath and shook his head, trying to calm down, "confused right now."

The cautious look melted away in Thomas' eyes, replaced by a look of empathy as his shoulders sunk. Slowly, Simon nodded.

"Me too."

Again Dor'ash shook his head, looking at the two of them. He wasn't helping matters for Simon, he knew, and these two definitely didn't deserve to think his fury was ever aimed at them.

"I'm sorry that I-"

Dor'ash looked up sharply at the sound of footsteps and smell of decay, but it was not Sarah who shuffled towards them. It was Jonathan, clutching one shoulder and staggering on the matching foot. Half his robe clung to him in smoldering patches.

Both Simon and Thomas too looked around in alarm when they saw Dor'ash's movement, and the sight of the approaching Forsaken did not make them look any less uneasy.

"I lost her," Jonathan said in Common, slumping onto a chair by another table.

"Who the hell are you?" Simon snapped before anybody else could speak, his voice nearly breaking once more.

"Heh…" A dull snort escaped the undead man, and he bowed his head in a mockery of a polite greeting. "Jonathan Schiller, good Sir. I am… or perhaps was, a very good friend of the lovely Sarah."

A moan left Simon's lips and he hunched deeper. Helplessly, Thomas patted his shoulder.

Jonathan's yellow gaze rose, resting on Dor'ash.

"I think she's breaking up with both of us," Jonathan said, out of some shred of empathy choosing to speak Orcish this time.

"That warlock in Azshara was her brother too, wasn't he?" Dor'ash coldly asked in the same language, glaring at the dry, rotting person on the chair.

Some part of him still wanted to doubt it, that tangle which made this so much more complicated. Whatever that was worth.

"You know…" Jonathan said, even colder, "she didn't want you to know that she killed her own brother for your sake. She seemed to think that you'd be offe-"

The impact of the clay mug hitting his face sent Jonathan tumbling onto the floor. He rolled over on his back, snarling up at the growling Dor'ash, with beer staining his already ruined robe and fat bubbles weighing down the thin locks of hair on his head. In the background, Simon and Thomas had both gotten to their feet in alarm – the latter reaching his hands towards the orc, but faltering. He let his arms slump back to his sides.

The goblin innkeeper came rushing, but stopped and decided to shout his protests against this behavior from a safe distance.

"Don't you dare patronize me!" Dor'ash snarled. "She was the one who did nothing! She was the one who ran!"

"You breathing types…" Jonathan hissed, reverting to Common with a sneer at Simon. "Why do you think we hate you?"

He drew himself up with the help of the chair, continuing to speak before anybody had a chance to reply. The innkeeper's snarls remained a background noise.

"It's a simple little prayer, boys. 'Please don't look at me like that'. But you're always too busy screaming to hear us when we scramble back to 'life'." Jonathan's tone was bitter, but the scorn on his face never wavered. "Is that too much to ask?"

Simon's fist slammed into a table with surprising force.

"I almost drowned for her sake!" he snarled.

"Ah, yes." Burnt joints creaked as Jonathan half bowed in a quick motion. "I thank you graciously for risking your life for my sweetheart."

"Jonathan!" Dor'ash growled, baring his fangs.

"I'm going, I'm going."

With a final snort, Jonathan simply vanished again. As much as a show of power that seemed, at least it spared all of them the sight of him staggering away.

Dor'ash heavily sat back down, pressing a fist to his pounding head.

* * *

It was a painful thing, saying goodbye to Thomas and Simon. There was so much Dor'ash wished that he could say, wished he could do to make sense of this, and he saw the same expression in their eyes. Yet there were no words or actions that could make this right.

"I want to know if you find her again," Simon said through clenched teeth, and Dor'ash could only nod.

Didn't matter how she was found, or what happened next. Simon needed closure. He deserved closure.

_And so do I._

Looking at Simon, Dor'ash could tell that though he was still shocked, he would get angry soon. It would be a step in the right direction, for better or worse. It may be the only way to heal. But the orc would not be there to deal with that. Thomas would.

Grey whimpered like a puppy and buffed his big snout against Dor'ash's hands when the shaman came to get his mount from the stables – sensing his companion's distress. Dor'ash tried to smile, rubbing the wolf's head. It couldn't do much against his mood, but Grey did what he could.

Dor'ash tried to avoid looking at Sarah's unmoving skeletal horse, and didn't say a word about that creature to the goblin stable master.

That thing was her business only.

The ride across the Barrens was silent, with only Grey's paws smattering against the dusty road.

They had not always talked, of course. There had been hours of being lost in their own thoughts, in between dialogues sometimes lasting for less than a minute. But there had always been something more than his breathing and the soft thumps of Grey's padding along. The clip-clop of her horse's hooves and the creaking of her joints. With her, breath only meant preparing to speak.

Perhaps it was foolish to form strong friendships in a world like this. Especially with somebody like that.

The sun was sinking towards the horizon when Dor'ash rode up a rise in the road and spotted the distant guard tower and the huts beyond it. Grey was panting heavily despite the pauses to rest, but the waves of healing magic Dor'ash distractedly sent into the wolf made the long trip easier on him.

By then, the shaman too felt too tired to be angry anymore, exhausted as if he had been fighting and not just riding for half a day. A cooling evening wind washed over the orc and the wolf as they continued into Drakamash Village and towards a certain farm.

"Dor'ash?"

He looked up to see young Karg looking at him from the other side of the fence. The young orc dropped the hoe he had been carrying and hurried towards the gate to open it. Dor'ash dully realized that he must be looking like he had been mauled by five angry ogres, if one look at him made Karg toss their uneasy relationship aside just like that.

That feeling grew stronger when Dor'ash tried to dismount and almost fell down, only to have Karg grab his arms and support him.

"Mother!" the half-grown boy shouted over his shoulders, then turned back and lowered his voice. "What happened to you? Where's Sarah?"

Dor'ash could only shake his head.

The sun painted the sky in a blazing yellow and red, the torn clouds feathery streaks of purple against the warm colors above. Another brush of wind toyed with Grey's fur and the orcs' black hair, tiny tendrils that had broken free of their braids.

Grema appeared around the corner of the house, absentmindedly drying blood from her hands with an old rag. Seeing the two of them and the wolf standing there she dropped the cloth and ran forwards, reaching out with a question forming on her lips.

Dor'ash could not, in that moment, understand why he had ever wanted to be anywhere else but there.


	2. Silence

He was so tired when he tried to explain, that he could hardly tell the story in the right order. Karg and Grema listened, frowning, gazes shifting from empathic to disbelieving and back again.

Somehow – he even remembered that later – he ended up not mentioning what Sarah had called him when she climbed out of the water, before she fled. Why he left that out, he couldn't really tell right then.

The world lost its edges and corners to a blur even as he told the two of them what had happened. That only got worse while he kept muttering, and Grema's strong, long fingers began picking at the straps holding his armor in place. Dor'ash idly tried to help, still mumbling, yet his own fingers, much bigger but usually just as nimble, slipped on the familiar latches.

When he reached the point where he had nothing else to say, he couldn't even bring himself to keep trying with the armor. Later on, when he had rested, he vaguely remembered Grema and Karg joining forces to get him up the stair and to the mother's bed. He couldn't for the life of him recall crashing there.

He woke up in the crack of dawn to a pounding headache. Lying still with his eyes closed he managed to keep the pain at bay, even if he could feel it lurking behind his forehead. At least the house was pleasantly dark, with no searing light trying to aid the headache.

A fresh scent of crisp morning air floated into the dusk, mingling with the smoky aroma of the fire pit and everything else belonging to Grema's kitchen – traces of bread and yesterday's roasted meat.

He didn't just smell the cool winds of the morning, they brushed over him as well, over the bare green skin of his face and arms. The warm blanket and his own clothes kept the refreshing chill from the rest of him, and that was just fine. Even warmer was Grema, stretched out beside him, one arm protectively draped over his chest.

From the lack of a lumpy feeling beneath his head and neck, Dor'ash deduced that she must have taken the time to sort out the many small braids in his hair, while he slept.

Turning his head, despite the pain that caused, he pried one sandy eye open. It took a few moments before his sight cleared and grew accustomed to the shadows of the house, but he waited and could finally study Grema's sleeping face. In the poor light her features were not as highlighted, but still visible half to his eyes and half to his mind since he had often watched her before.

Her mouth hung half open, with the occasional snore, marking her fine tusks and leaving her sharp fangs visible. Despite the relaxation that came with sleep, the teeth and her square jaw line upheld an amount of ferociousness. As did her thick neck and arms – even if she lived on a farm now, her entire body remained well honed. He could easily imagine how stunning she must have looked in the heat of battle, splattered with blood and roaring on top of her lungs.

She was attractive now, too, even more than the first time they met and he was struck by the strong, proud way she carried herself.

There was also a certain relief adding to the rest of what he felt right then, Dor'ash had to admit that, in the simple fact that she was another orc. One of his kind, with the same history as he and raised in a similar way. Similar way of thinking.

Shuffling sounds rose from the other side of the second floor, as Karg climbed out of bed and pulled his clothes on. Without a word he snuck over to the stair and headed down. Some wooden thumps followed, then the slow, lazy hiss and crackle of fire coming to life from embers.

For a little while there was no more sound of movement. Karg probably watched the flames in the fire pit until he was certain that they were under control. Then his steps resumed – the door opened, and closed behind him.

Silence.

Grema stirred. Dor'ash remained still as she yawned and opened her eyes to sleepily peer at him.

"Hmm?" she finally mumbled.

Dor'ash grunted. The pain in his head throbbed, but he ignored it. Now that he'd gotten time to recover well enough to think, he was not at all happy about how he had acted.

"I must have seemed weak yesterday," he muttered.

"Weary," she corrected. Her thumb stroke along one of his tusks and he closed his eyes. "I could forgive you for slipping once or twice, anyway."

Her fingertips continued up to his scalp, resting there for a moment. A tingle followed, warm and sweetly cool at the same time, little islands of feeling where she pressed down. She didn't berate him for not drinking enough water while travelling across the hot Barrens yesterday. She didn't need to, he knew it full well himself.

His headache subsided under the minor healing magic she could offer – Karg had inherited his possibility to become a shaman from her. Because of the demonic corruption and the wars, however, Grema had never had the chance to develop her abilities. Only luck had kept her from having to train to become a warlock, probably, or her skills had not been judged as great enough by the Shadow Council's servants.

Dor'ash muttered his thanks. Nodding, Grema let her hand slip away and back down to his chest. They laid in silence for a while.

All his supposed wisdom as a shaman utterly failed Dor'ash still, he bitterly concluded. He didn't know what to do. Sarah was out there, spirits knew in what mental state and what she was doing, and he couldn't decide what he ought to do about that. What he _could_ do. Her actions hadn't really made sense to begin with.

Disgusted with his own inability he pushed himself up, swinging his stiff legs over the edge of the bed. Grema followed him, sitting beside him as he stopped moving.

When he looked at her, she reached around his neck. She didn't speak, the question was there and patiently waiting for him to pick his mind back together well enough to answer.

"I needed to think." Hunching forwards, he leant his forehead against his fingertips. "And I can't allow that you and Karg would have to deal with Sarah alone in case she comes here. I know that you two could fight her if need be, but she's powerful and plays dirty."

Grema's arm was a warm, soft weight against his neck.

"You don't really think that she would attack us, do you?" she asked.

"I don't know." He let out a sigh, looking up into her beautifully sunken eyes. "She acted nothing like I've known her to, back there."

The anger had drained away completely, and it didn't spark back up. All he felt was a deep sadness, and though the insult Sarah had screamed at him still hurt, he remembered her crouching and gripping her head. Now that he looked back at it, she reminded him of a cornered, frightened animal. Jonathan must have understood that right away.

Still… no telling whether her sanity was still firmly in place. And where was she now?

No way to know that. However, he knew that she knew of this place, and that it was where he would go. He looked at Grema, reaching around her back.

"I don't want to think she's insane, but I won't leave until I know for sure," he said, shaking his head.

"I appreciate the help, even though you come to me while thinking about another woman." She softly smirked when he gave her a sharp look, and silenced his protest by stroking his coarse cheek with a worn, strong hand. "Don't be silly. Of course I know there's no competition."

That was true, but the sense of guilt simmering under the surface of his emotions reared its head. He came here again and again, visiting, staying a few days, sometimes longer, but always left again together with Sarah. Always had something left to do.

If he got himself killed, Grema might never even know about it. That was why he tried not to get roped into any more dangerous missions, although that had not quite turned out according to plan so far.

It was a vague excuse, that this ongoing war didn't allow for too strong relationships and theirs weren't the only of its kind.

Sarah existed in that equation. Through all they had survived, he had come to rely on her to be his final line of defense, if all else failed ready to set herself on fire. A "pet", an ally, a friend. Not a loved one, nothing like that could ever exist between them and they knew it – Grema did too.

But he was still treating Grema unfairly. Pursing his mouth he moved back onto the bed, pulling her into an embrace.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

She shook her head, pushing herself up on her hands.

"I'm happy you're here, Dor'ash," she firmly said, looking down into his eyes. Then she lay down and settled her warm bulk against his more comfortably.

He didn't argue. Deep down he amusedly figured that he better not voice anymore doubts, because knowing her, she would punch him in the face if he did.

* * *

"Do you know if she'll come here?" Karg asked on the third day, catching Dor'ash staring off in a distance. His gaze might have been turned towards the brown horizon of the Barrens, but he did not really see it.

The older orc looked around, curious at the testing tone in the younger's voice. Karg wanted to have something confirmed, whatever it may be.

"I was asking the spirits for any news," Dor'ash said, motioning at his head. "From what I can tell she's not nearby right now."

A tone of sadness colored the murmur of the spirits as he called to them for any tidings of Sarah. Now, as he looked at Karg and wondered if maybe, maybe the boy had something to add, the spirits' murmur changed from a worried topic to a carefully eager one.

Karg seemed to notice too, shifting uneasily. That was all the proof Dor'ash needed to confirm what he had known, what Grema had known, and they both had hoped. But he didn't speak, waiting to let Karg chose for himself. It had to be a free choice to admit that one heard the spirits' voices, Dor'ash felt that way even if – or especially because – he himself had had the truth dragged out of him by an exasperated Drek'Thar.

Ten years old he'd still believed, even in the haven of the Alterac Valley, that all shamans had to train as warlocks and he wanted nothing to do with the demons that had robbed him of his home. Therefore, for the longest time he struggled to hide the fact that he heard the cliffs, the winds and the icy brooks whisper to him. Orcs aren't good at subtlety however, children even less so, and Drek'Thar finally grabbed that confused child by the scruff of his neck and asked him why he was trying to suppress a gift so precious to himself and his entire clan.

Times were different now, but not too much in essence. It hurt Dor'ash greatly, and Grema even more, to see Karg stubbornly cling to the conviction that he ought to follow his dead father's strict warrior path. His father surely would rather have seen the son make use of his spiritual talents, as well.

Now Karg grit his teeth and looked away for a moment. Then, slowly his arm rose up and he pointed westwards, towards the rising hills on the horizon.

"She… is far in that direction," he grudgingly muttered, drawing each word from his chest. "I think she's feeling very angry and lost."

Dor'ash's heart could have split apart from the rip between joyful pride for the young orc, and the warring worry and resentment for Sarah. He swallowed against the whirling emotions, and merely nodded.

"Thank you," he managed.

Karg grunted, then shot him a wary look.

"How come I can tell and you can't?" he demanded. "You're supposed to be powerful."

It was a challenge to the elder's legitimacy, but there was a hesitance in it. Curiosity. The boy wanted to know more.

"I am," Dor'ash said, hardly able to keep his voice calm. "But I've been moving about, while you have spent years here. The spirits of this land knows you better than me. If we were in the Alterac Mountains, I would be able to hear the spirits a lot more clearly while you would have to listen very carefully."

"I wouldn't-!"

Karg snapped his mouth shut and rubbed his arm nervously. Finally he growled.

"I just don't know," he grumbled. "I don't know about them, or myself, or you and Mother. Or Sarah."

"You decide. You're almost an adult." Saying so, Dor'ash laid his huge hand on Karg's just as massive shoulder. When the younger looked up, the shaman added with a sigh, "I don't know either, sometimes. Right now, I don't know a blasted thing about Sarah."

"Are you going to forgive her?"

Dor'ash sighed again and shook his head, then gazed in the direction Karg had pointed.

"I don't know. I really just don't know," he said.

But at least he knew, then, that she was going to come back soon. Crawling or marching, muttering or screeching – and depending on which, he would know whether to forgive her, whether she wanted to be forgiven.

And maybe then he would ask her to forgive him for not letting her know about Simon before. But that would only happen if she didn't burst in determined to burn him alive.


	3. Pieces of a Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Undead flirting!

He knew, when darkness fell over the landscape on the fourth day.

The spirits hummed, but they did not tell him per se – their murmur was more of a confirmation of his instincts. Dor'ash went outside at that darkening hour to fetch water from the well for Grema to rinse the dishes in, and stood for a moment gazing into the deepening night. Bonfires marked the distant watch towers, blazing patches of orange, and some light spilled from the smoke holes and still open windows of the nearby houses. Apart from that, only a few stars and the moons rising, dampened by a sheet of thin clouds.

It wasn't silent. The wind whispered, and some animal howled in a distance. He could hear Grey growl sleepily in reply, but the great wolf was satisfied where he slouched beside the porch of the house, not at all in the mood to go hunt.

All the elements were strong here, but so were the shadows.

_Come on then, if you've finally decided,_ Dor'ash thought, squaring his jaw.

He went inside, and told Grema and Karg. They simply nodded, faces serious – though there was a flash of recognition in Karg's eyes. He had heard it, too.

All three of them went to sleep as if something was wrong, but Dor'ash knew that he wasn't the only one slumbering lightly, if at all. Still, when he felt it, there was not a trace of sleepiness in his body.

She could be silent as a mouse when she wanted to, but there was one thing about her person which she never could do anything about. The stench of dry decay was always there.

Dor'ash got out of bed, hearing Grema stir as his hand grasped his war hammer. She did not speak, however, and remained where she was. In any other fight she would have joined him, but neither of them knew if this would be a fight. Either way it was far too private.

On naked feet, Dor'ash descended the stair to the first floor, holding his hammer tightly. Armed, but the night chill brushed over his bare chest. No armor and no totems. He did not know what to expect, the spirits had given him no clue and Karg had not been able to divine anything except what he had said yesterday.

Only the dull, red glow from the fireplace, and the meager, clouded moonlight through the smoke hole in the wall offered any shred of light. Not much to work with, even with an orc's sharp eyesight.

None of the shadows moved. It didn't matter. He could smell her, and faced one of the dark corners without hesitating.

Silence.

A night bird hooted outside, in a distance, and the wind gently rattled the leaves of the vegetable garden. Dor'ash stood still, watching the same patch of darkness.

"What will it be?" the shadows finally said. "The hammer? Frost shock?"

He refused to be unnerved by her dull, emotionless challenge.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

No reply at first. He waited, not hearing a sound from above. Grema and Karg were both listening, holding their breath.

"Here and there," eventually came from the darkness.

"Where, Sarah?" he asked, much sharper than before.

There was a joyless, short chuckle.

"Nowhere near Theramore. I haven't even tried. Go ask your pet paladin, he'll tell you that little Simon is just fine." Another chuckle, even dryer. "Unless he's killed himself, now. I suppose seeing dead family members walking around is a bit traumatizing."

The muscles in Dor'ash's neck and shoulders relaxed just a fraction. She might be lying, but he felt that she wasn't. Still…

"Would you have just let him drown?" he asked.

No reply.

"He said that you tugged at his hand."

For a moment, it seemed as if this would not receive a reply either. Then Sarah slowly spoke.

"Maybe I did. I don't know."

"Why not?"

It wasn't meant to be a challenge, he wasn't sure what he meant it to be. But she let out a bitter laugh and the shadows moved as she pushed herself up to standing.

"Oh, you high and mighty shaman of the Frostwolf clan…"

There was another tone in her voice now, seething with contempt. He remained unmoving as she stepped forwards, as unpleasant a sight as she was. The little light did not allow for details, but his mind filled in the blanks.

Only rags remained of her robe, torn apart and burned, and her body was in no better condition. Strips of flesh dangled precariously from her limbs and sagging, dried up breasts. One cheek had been ripped open, showing two rows of blackened teeth, and her leather mask was lost once again.

Dry blood which could not be hers flaked from old splatters all over her body, crowning the horrific image.

"There was no reason for you to not help him," Dor'ash said, as steadily as he could.

"Preach! Preach a little more!" she snapped, torn skin and flesh flapping when she cleaved the air with one hand. "Maybe you'll even save my poor little damned soul!"

She laughed again, hard and cold.

"No, let me set you straight. I already killed one of my brothers, and I would kill him again and again!"

She stared at him, insane sneer anticipating damnation, demanding to be tossed aside so that nothing but hatred would remain. Her hands spread, awaiting his judgment with demented pleasure. The bitter words she would mock him with were already at the back of her throat, those words that would end everything. Not knowing that he already knew, and had made up his mind.

It was more than a mental image, almost a vision, of her standing in the palm of his hand above a sea of putrid darkness.

_Am I truly so important to you?_

"Patrick," he said, his voice even.

Sarah froze, then staggered backwards as if stricken. Her back brushed the wall, but outside the moons had emerged behind the clouds and the cold rays coming through the smoke hole ate up the shadows. They no longer hid her small, stick thin form.

"You did know he was your brother when you killed him, didn't you?" Dor'ash asked, laying his war hammer on the table. He knew that too, already. But he wanted to hear her say it, even more than he had wanted Jonathan's confirmation of the fact.

Her chipped teeth showed in a snarl, but she looked away. Knowing she had lost.

"Yes!" she snapped, twisting her face back towards him. "And what do your family values say about that?"

He just shook his head with a calm that must have driven her half insane judging by the hiss. But he ignored it and looked upwards, towards the second floor.

"Do you have an extra dress to spare, Grema?" he said. "Hers is all torn up."

The hissing faltered.

"One moment," Grema calmly replied from above, and he heard her shuffle through something. Bless her soul.

A shadow fluttered above, and he reached up to catch the falling cloth. Only then, when he held it, did he turn back to Sarah. She still stood by the wall, gaping at him.

All the buttons of the dress were undone, so he spread it out in his grip and stepped closer to Sarah, wrapping the cloth around her tiny shoulders. Grema was so much bigger than her, naturally the dress dwarfed the undead. It hung around her like a blanket, and her empty eye sockets stared up at him.

"You're a mess," he said. "Sit down, I'll heal you."

She tumbled forwards, weakly punching at his chest a couple of times. He hardly felt it despite the lack of armor, and she slumped against him after a moment, as lukewarm as the air. Not crying, just whispering broken curses at him. For a little while he let her feebly rage, then patted her back. It was an unusually fond touch, but she wasn't acting much like herself – it wasn't a very pleasant thing to do either, considering what a state her body was in. He did it anyway.

"Stop that before you realize you have to kill all of us for seeing you like this," he said.

"Yeah, well…" she took in a hissing breath, fists pressed against him, "enjoy the show, because it's one of a kind."

"I hope so, because I'll crush your head like a watermelon if you ever, ever do anything that stupid again."

She snorted, but it ended abruptly when he placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. The look on her face was guarded, grey-green lips pressed tightly together.

"Now, why don't you tell me why you reacted like that back in Ratchet?" he said.

At first Sarah recoiled half a step, but she stopped and looked away. In the silence, he heard her swallow hard and realizing that she had actually done so sent his fleshy eyebrows upwards. One of her hands flew to her throat, underlining what she had just done.

It was a natural thing, a sign of simple anxiety. But it was a reaction of the living.

"I remember."

She whispered the two words, hand falling and shoulders slumping. Dor'ash stared down at her, as she slowly shook her head.

"Not everything," she continued, muttering uneasily, grasping her upper arm. "Bits. Details. Patrick didn't do a thing for me when I first met him, not like this." She looked up at him again, biting her lower lip. Broken and dirty teeth delicately, nervously catching that grey-green flap of flesh and holding it there, bizarrely flimsy. Realizing that too, she slapped a hand to her mouth and groaned. " _See_?"

"Huh." Dor'ash scratched his head, stumped on how to handle this change of character. Then he pulled himself together. "And that made you want to claw Simon's eyes out?"

"You try having mental images and emotions you had no idea about suddenly pound into your head," she snapped, but there was still a frail edge to it. "It's rather… overwhelming." She looked down. "It hurt, like hell, and all I knew was that it was his fault. And you were in the way."

She shook her head again, more forcefully this time.

"I felt as if that person I used to be would rise up and start screaming," she growled. "She wouldn't stand a chance. The Lich King would swallow her whole with a word." She rapped her fist against the back of her head, then looked at him with a sneer. "You can't understand, can you? He never, ever shuts up. Well… the voices in _your_ head don't try to tell you that you're better off staggering around mumbling about brains."

"No, they don't. Now…"

Dor'ash breathed in, then tapped her shoulder. Though snorting softly, Sarah sunk down to sit on the floor and he followed her. Raising both hands he muttered a prayer for the spirits to heal. Immediately a warm glow rose up around his fingers, further illuminating how ragged Sarah's fighting had left her. From the cuts, burns and scratches he could guess that she had at least spent some time with quilboars, but there were some marks he couldn't quite identify and didn't feel like dwelling on.

As the glow from his hands flowed into her body in a steady stream, drawing the dangling strips of skin and flesh back in place, Sarah's head sunk with relief. That was a good sign, but not enough – Dor'ash knew he had to keep disentangling this mess for both their sakes.

"Looking back at the way you and Patrick talked to each other in Azshara, I actually guessed that he was your husband," he said.

"Lothar's toenails, that's disgusting. I'd rather have rushed towards Kel'thuzad, yelling 'take me, take me'." She thought for a moment. "Alright, maybe not."

The morbid joke was weak, yet she did speak it with a sneer. Dor'ash allowed himself to relax at least a fraction, but then she visibly tensed.

"About Ratchet, when I got out of the water…" Sarah started, fists clenching.

"Never mind that."

He cut her off, shaking his head firmly. Even if she did not finish it, he knew it was an apology and that was enough. As he had not told Grema and Karg what Sarah called him back there, it would not be good if they found out now.

She watched him for a second, then turned around at the sound of footsteps. Grema came down the stair, loose night clothing sagging around her, and her son followed. They both made themselves comfortable on the floor, all illuminated by the light around Dor'ash's hands.

"Look, I know I'm like the family dog who ran into the woods and just found her way back," Sarah muttered, sneering, while Karg settled down. "You don't have to rub it in my face."

"You had us worried," Grema said.

"Oh shove it."

It was a dull mumble, though. Sarah pulled up her knees, hugging them beneath the mending glow of Dor'ash's hands. Looking strangely vulnerable.

"Simon said you hated having to kill chickens," Dor'ash murmured. It was a random point, but he had to start again somewhere.

A neigh-hysterical giggle escaped Sarah's throat and she pressed a hand to her mouth. That was all, though, and she didn't move otherwise.

"Yes," she finally said. "Pathetic." After a moment of silence she straightened up a little. "Patrick would have just loved to drill it all back into my brain," she continued, shaking her head in disgust. "Arthas, I was so scared, of everything. Of soldiers and wild animals and big, sappy green teddy bears."

Karg opened his mouth, supposedly to ask why the living Sarah would have had to fear soldiers of her own kind. However, something seemed to click and he settled back, squaring his jaw. When he glanced at his mother, she pursed her lips. That let the boy know that his guess was correct.

In the silence, while mother and son exchanged glances, Dor'ash moved his hand in a stroking motion through the air, above Sarah's head and back. He didn't really have to do it, as far as the magic was concerned.

For a moment the shaman wished that Jonathan had been there. With someone able to share this, the unnatural pain of remembering life from the other side of the grave, it may have been a lighter burden for her to bear. But then again, perhaps it would have only made it harder for everyone. Jonathan may not have had any empathy to offer, when it got down to it – Forsaken were difficult to predict.

Yet, Dor'ash could not even really tell if Sarah was suffering. Still curled up on herself, but her tone went from annoyed to dull to solemn and back. Confused may be the only right word. At least she had regained control of herself, now.

She drew in breath to speak again.

"I was… eighteen, I think. Suppose our parents wanted me to get married to the boy next door soon." She shrugged, turning her face towards them with a sneer just when Dor'ash almost lost control of the healing spell, his throat clenching. "No, I'm not sad. You bunch are much more amusing."

In the silence, one could hear that night bird cry somewhere outside again.

"Don't look at me like that," Sarah finally said, straightening up a little more. "I don't miss it. I was bored and weak and stuck where I was. What did I lose?"

"And you're going to hate yourself in the morning," Grema pointed out. She reached forwards and tucked a cobwebby strand of hair behind the scraps of Sarah's left ear, lightly rapping her fingers against the sunken cheek. In this somber air, the small woman didn't recoil from the motherly touch.

Not until Grema slowly pulled back.

"Bah."

Sarah dunked her forehead onto her knees.

"I already do," she grumbled, rather late.

"Wait a moment, you're only two years older than me?" Karg said, grinning toothily as her head snapped up.

Seeing Sarah's lips move soundlessly, Dor'ash laughed so hard, relieved, that he did lose focus and the magic faded. Darkness fell over the room until he managed to rekindle the spell. When the light returned, Sarah had her finger pointed at Karg's nose.

"For the record, kid, I'm hardly three years old because that's when I woke up a Forsaken and you better show some respect or you'll be bleating until dawn."

"When you'll hate yourself for real," he said, still grinning although his eyes nearly crossed trying to look at her fingertip.

"Hah! But not for having turned you into raptor chow."

"Mother or Dor'ash would turn me back, anyway," he said.

"Not if I push you through a portal before they can react."

Chuckling throatily, Grema tossed a handful of sticks onto the fireplace and dug around in the embers with one of them until the fire flared up. It chased away the darkness much better than Dor'ash's magic could, even if it wouldn't last long.

The laughter slowly ebbed, at an even pace. Dor'ash started with the cuts in Sarah's face, the rest of her body mended by now. He was glad for that, the late hour and the long healing, coupled with the simmering tension of the last days, took its toll.

"Can you hear the Lich King talking now, you said?" Grema suddenly said in a low voice.

Dor'ash gave her a sharp look, which she ignored.

"Ah," Sarah muttered. "The trick is to keep ignoring him. I think it's all over the moment you start listening."

"It's not something one should dwell on, I think," Dor'ash said, shaking his head. "It can't be good for your head." He tapped a finger against Sarah's skull, but looked at Grema with some concern for her curiosity.

She calmly looked back.

"I remember the blood haze, Dor'ash," she said, still speaking unusually low and soft. "You never felt it." She met the no-gaze from Sarah's eye sockets and pursed her mouth. "But I didn't hear any voice. It was just a fury that knew no end."

"Hm."

Sarah's lips twisted into a smirk.

"You guys could still get ideas of your own. They apparently decided that that was a bad tactic." Her mouth relaxed, then the lips pressed tightly together. "I don't remember anything from that time though." She slumped a bit again. "I don't remember any 'last' thing either. It's all a jumble."

"How does it make you feel now?" Dor'ash asked.

She smirked again, seemingly shaking off the unease.

"I won't freak out on you again, I promise, even if I recall more and more," she said. "I just need to sort this out."

"Then that's fine."

He didn't say anything about Simon. He would certainly write the poor man, but further meetings between the siblings would probably be best avoided. Everyone involved could agree on that.

Sarah slowly nodded, humming. It sounded almost grateful.

A few moments later, Dor'ash let the magic fade from his fingers. There was nothing left to heal.

"Thanks." She stood up suddenly, shaking her head. "By Arthas. I have to find Jonathan."

"He said he would keep looking for you," Dor'ash said, getting to his feet as well.

"Good enough." As she headed to the door and pushed it open, she briefly looked over her shoulder and managed a smirk. "I'll be back."

"You better."

He returned the smirk and with that, everything was fine between them again.

* * *

She dove into the night, gathering up the force of her drained mind to instantly bring her out of the village. In truth her mind soared and she felt as if she could fly, but the _practical_ truth of the matter was that she had pressed herself to her very limits for days.

With a soft tinkling sound she flashed out of existence and reappeared several yards away from the outmost fence. From there she hurried on towards a not too distant hill. By the time she reached it, she'd used up all the extra energy which Dor'ash's healing had granted her, and she staggered.

Just needed a high point and some rest…

A thin shadow stood atop the hill, offering her a skeletal hand.

"Ah," Sarah commented, somewhat sheepishly. Even as she grasped Jonathan's hand and let him support her the last couple of steps, she realized the fact that she actually was able to feel sheepish. She hoped that it was a passing phase.

He didn't reply. The yellow light from his eyes shone over half his face, but left the eroding mouth in shadow.

They stood in silence, the cool wind pushing at their hair and clothes. An owl suspiciously watched them from a nearby tree.

"I'll buy you a new robe," Sarah finally said.

He slowly nodded.

"Your breathing brother doesn't approve of me, I think," he said.

"Neither did my other one."

Turning around, she let go of his hand and motioned towards the sleeping village.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't tell anybody that Dor'ash has friends here," she said.

"As you wish."

"Thank you."

They watched each other.

"What?" she finally asked, gruffly. "You shouldn't have chased after me if you didn't want to get burned back there."

Shaking his head he raised one hand and tilted her chin upwards with two sharp, claw-like fingertips.

"I got the idea that you were seeing somebody in life," he said, voice even.

She would have blinked, if she'd had eyelids.

"Oh, for the love of- you're not jealous," she snorted.

"No, no. Of course not," he said, and the moonlight ran across his chipped teeth as he smirked. "I just want to know if he's dead or if I can brutally murder him."

"Mmh…" With a hoarse little chuckle, Sarah slid up against his scrawny chest. A heavy stench of old beer added to his already eye-watering smell, but she hardly felt it anyway. "That's just _so_ dreamy."

Bone scraped against bone as Jonathan wrapped her into an embrace.

"Well. I'm a romantic at heart, after all," he said.

"You have a heart?" She pulled at a cut in his throat, craning her neck as if trying to peer down into the darkness of his chest.

"Not sure. Does it matter?" His voice came out wheezing until she pushed the flap of skin back in place and smoothed it with her fingertips. "So… are you going to protect him or tell me his name?"

"Silly." She finished patching up his throat and leant her forehead against the spot. "Adam Hartwell, and it would be a wonder if he survived."

Jonathan was silent for a moment. A sound not unlike a lazily rattled tambourine rose from where he stroke her neck.

"Patrick took on that last name in Azshara," he finally said. "He was one twisted son of a lich."

"Quite."

For a moment, they were both silent. Finally, Sarah shrugged and shook her head, maybe a little too lightly.

"I don't remember…" she paused, shook her head again. "I can't say if his choice of pseudonym meant anything."

"Mmh. Either way, he's gone." Normally, they mostly just played pretend when it came to anything affectionate. Such emotions were slow and too much of a bother to the Forsaken. Being angry was so much easier. Yet now, Jonathan pulled Sarah closer with something that was very close to a heartfelt wish to offer shelter.

He figured she would know for sure eventually, if there was anything to know. He'd been there too, when walking stiffly through Silvermoon City, gritting his teeth and moving on because standing still was unbearable – while memories flared up from the merciful mist inside his mind. Days and weeks and months and years, piece by piece, muddled and strung together by the memory of… boredom.

And then chaos, tumbling, roaring jaws and fangs and a choking stench of decay and- nothing.

That hurt, hurt so bad he had to leave and find a spot in the Ghostlands where he could just scream and scream his rage.

It was, however, surprisingly easy to shake off. But like he had once told Dor'ash, Jonathan had no plans to ever, ever go back to Silvermoon.

He mentally shook himself out of it and gazed down at Sarah's meager threads of dirty hair.

"And now, you'll be bitter and hateful towards everything that breathes." Jonathan let hear a loud, sharp sigh.

"Hah. You'd love that, wouldn't you?" she grunted, smirking.

"Yes, because there's nothing more sensual than the way you rip the entrails out of a screaming beast. I followed you around these last days, you know."

"Stalker. And you want to kill my ex, too. That's horrible." Saying so, she nuzzled his partly exposed collar bone.

"I'm sure I was more handsome than him, though."

"No doubt. How old were you, anyway?"

It had never really occurred to her to ask, before. Now that she had some recollections of her own life, though, she found herself curious.

"Oh." He thought for a moment, but she didn't think twice about it. Her memory was fuzzy, and she could not know how much he actually remembered. "Youngish."

"Youngish," she repeated.

"Yes."

"Mid twenty-ish? I was eighteen, you know."

"Well, that's not too bad a match in age."

She snorted, but accepted this reply as a yes. Not like it really mattered, anyway.

Although, in truth Jonathan thought it very vital indeed, to not reveal that one had to multiply twenty several times before getting close to his age when he died.

Whoever she may have loved in life he really didn't give a damn about – but Jonathan could feel certain that he _had_ been far more handsome (or rather, pretty) than any human man Sarah had held dear. And if she ever found out about that, it would be _his_ entrails which she not-so-sensually ripped out.

He felt uneasy enough about that to opt for a distraction. Luckily, he had one handy.

"By the way, luv, that moss on my ribs is growing pretty well," he said, pulling his robe open to let her see. "Wanna cut it off now?"

Her soft cackle sent at least three small, nightly critters scurrying for cover.

The End.


End file.
